


the same deep water

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Loneliness, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, but from both participants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20257939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: It's curious watching the way they orbit each other, the pull of magnetism that seems to exist between them, drawing Jean-Éric to André as he's drawn to Lorene, the three of them spinning each other around until André is too dizzy to decipher Jean-Éric's intentions. He can't settle. Not for second step of the podium. Not for second best.---





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Bern and New York and inspired by the very brief clip Jev posted on his insta stories of André's dog in the pool in Gordes - which in my mind was Jev's last ditch attempt visit to talk him out of going to Porsche. 
> 
> I decided it might be fun to write something from Takako's POV - which it was, but also incredibly difficult. I have spent far too much time on everyone's social media, oh dear.
> 
> Many thanks to zeraparker for cheerleading and putting up with me angsting about this for the whole summer.

_Can't you see I try _  
_Swimming the same deep water as you is hard_

~ The Cure

They're kissing again. 

Takako doesn’t mean to stare, it’s just immensely difficult not to when there’s such a blatant display of affection and desire going on right in front of her. It makes her heart ache a little and she glances back down at her book, rereading the same paragraph for the third time. 

_ They were still in the happier stage of love _

– Her eyes skim over the words again with a wry smile, because yes, how fitting. 

_ They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, _

_ so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered. _

Well. 

She closes the pages, admitting defeat and leaning forward on the sun lounger to rest her chin on her drawn up knees, taking in the way Lorene is lying sprawled half on top of Jev on the opposite side of the swimming pool, their legs intertwined and their voices a low hum carried across the water, intimate whispers meant only for each other. One of Jean-Éric’s thighs is resting between Lorene’s legs and Takako doesn’t miss the way Lorene grinds against him with a slow roll of her hips, her face buried against Jev’s neck. 

It’s an oppressive day, the last reaches of the heatwave that’s drifted up from Africa wrapping its cloying fingers around their necks, the air dry and tight even beneath the shade of the extra umbrellas André had hurried out to buy late last night after Jev’s phone call informing them him and Lorene wanted to come by for a couple of days to escape the Parisian temperatures. It’s good to have guests to fill the house, even if it is too humid to really do much, and Takako feels a certain enjoyment in hosting, something deep-seated that takes her back to childhood in Misato and the family meals she’d helped her mother cook, the closeness with her cousins; now scattered across the globe. Her and André speak in English most of the time in Gordes, although her French is coming along slowly, a smattering of it finding its way into their conversation sometimes. Her confidence in the language is lacking though and she mostly refrains when it’s the four of them together, everyone’s command of English adept enough that her stumbling efforts aren’t necessary. There are times they slip back into French, when she’s been out of the room or if they’ve all had a little to drink, and suddenly she’s on the outside again, even as André’s hand always finds hers in an apologetic squeeze. 

Today, it seems, is one of those _ French days _, the effort involved in moving beyond their mother-tongues perhaps too much to expend. For once she doesn’t mind it as she listens to the soft syllables as André calls out to Jean-Éric from where he’s fixing their drinks in the kitchen. They converse back and forth for a moment, Jev nudging Lorene so she rolls off him and moves to sit back on her own lounger, caressing his thigh as she arches her back, sitting up straight to tie her hair up. 

Takako bites her lip, letting her eyes rove over the tight lines of Lorene’s body, her skin glistening with traces of sweat in the midday heat. Her mouth waters at the sight of Lorene's hard nipples, the pale coral material of her bikini top pulled taut over her breasts. Lorene catches her eye through the supposed shield of her sunglasses, holding her gaze for a moment of intensity before breaking into a cheeky smile. She opens her mouth as if to call something but then pauses at the sight of André emerging through the French doors carrying a carefully balanced tray of food and drinks, Max slinking behind him. 

They gather around the table beneath the shaded canopy of the pool house, the tiny gaps in the weaved roof bathing them all in mottled light. André pours the wine, a chilled pale rosé that is far too drinkable on a day like today, before lodging it back in the ice bucket, condensation slick on the side of the metal. The prawns he’s grilled are sweet and juicy, the salad light and fresh with watermelon and pomegranate seeds that burst in Takako’s mouth. She rests her head sleepily against André’s shoulder, smiling when he puts his arm around her and presses a kiss to her hair, relaxing into the familiarity of his touch. He makes her feel safe, an anchor so far from home, someone familiar to cling to as she tries to redefine her existence. 

When she looks up Jean-Éric is staring, a familiar hunger in his eyes, a jealousy that takes Takako’s breath away for a second. She watches as he picks up a piece of watermelon with his fingers, feeding it messily to Lorene. The juice drips down her chin and Jev leans in to lick away the traces of it, Lorene sticking out her tongue to meet his in an overt display of sensuality. Beneath the table, Lorene’s foot stretches out to trace up the inside of Takako’s calf, light and almost accidental. Beside her she feels André’s body turn rigid with tension, and when he stands to clear the plates away he scrapes the legs of the chair loudly on the stone floor. 

After lunch no one is much in the mood for doing anything, the vague plan they’d had to drive into Ménerbes together to pick up ingredients for dinner abandoned. André goes alone into Gordes instead, insisting it’s too quick a journey to bring anyone else along; even Max barely lifts his head as André scratches him behind the ears as he’s walking by. Takako can read his moods and so doesn’t push, sensing his need for a half hour of alone time. 

Jev and Lorene return to their place beneath the umbrella, too wrapped up in each other both literally and figuratively as she drags a brightly patterned sarong over to cover them both. Takako watches them curl against each other, ignoring the ache that she can feel down to her bones, skimming over her choices in her mind. She turns away from them then, moving to lie on her stomach and going back to her book. 

It’s late afternoon when she wakes, the sun slipped low beneath the parasol warming her skin, not quite as strong as earlier but enough that Lorene thinks it necessary to shake her shoulder a little. Takako blinks against the light, rubbing the side of her face where the towel has imprinted its seam on her cheek, glancing up at Lorene. 

“Water and sunscreen,” Lorene says, unconsciously parental, proffering a bottle of each. Takako yawns, trying to gather herself and shake off the sleepiness. The scent of lavender is heavy in the air from the nearby fields, fragrant. She tries to remember her dream but it’s too far from reach, something vague and lost, something beautiful but which then spiralled down into that day in Sapporo, to everything being over. Lorene is still standing there, arms outstretched. Takako takes the water, sitting up to drink it and in doing so making space for Lorene to sit beside her. 

“I should have woken you earlier, you feel so hot. Shall I?” Lorene’s fingers touch her shoulder again, cooling from holding the water that is now chilling her throat. Takako nods, flinching as Lorene sprays the sunscreen across her back, the soft touch of her hands as she rubs it in is pleasant and she finds herself leaning into it, shivering when Lorene moves her hair out of the way to do the back of her neck. She watches a lizard dart along the stone border around the pool, tongue darting out to devour an insect. 

“How long did I sleep?” 

“An hour, I think. They’re inside,” Lorene adds when Takako looks around in search of André and Jean-Éric. "Looking at camera lenses." 

Takako snorts, unable to catch herself. There's the distant patter of running water and she can see the afternoon through André's eyes, can imagine how they each use their bodies to make promises they'll never keep, how the _ I love you _ she suspects André hasn't been brave enough to say for real will spill out beneath the roar of the shower as they fuck, too low for Jev to hear. 

"Camera lenses, this time..." It's too hot, Takako can't help herself. Part of it is jealousy, although she doesn't envy André the impossible situation he's found himself in.

Lorene raises an eyebrow and not for the first time Takako wonders just how much she knows about the nature of all their individual relationships with each other. Lorene seems so carefree most of the time, youthful and untouched by pain, yet Takako has caught glimpses from time to time, knows there was a short-lived marriage that is still being wrangled out by solicitors and a father who has abandoned his little girl. 

She takes another slow sip of the deliciously cold water, tilting her head in contemplation. “How do you feel about it,” she asks, genuinely curious, “about them?” 

Lorene’s hand stills on her back, she leans in to rest her cheek on Takako’s shoulder for a moment. “What about them, specifically?” When she giggles her lips touch Takako’s skin. No one ever says anything they truly mean. “It’s fine,” Lorene follows on. 

Takako looks out over the pool, the sun shimmering blindingly off the surface of the water, cool and inviting.

“And you?” 

“We’re having a baby.” 

Lorene’s gaze flickers to the empty wine glass on the small table to the side of them. 

“Not right now, I mean. Not yet. But soon I hope. We hope.” Something in Takako's heart clenches and unfurls, dull and physical, the same longing as she’d felt watching Lorene and Jev together earlier that day. Which sort of love is better, she wonders, a pure and simple passion like the sort that led to her being broken-hearted and alone or the warm companionship she has with André, the practical life they’re building together. There’s sacrifice everywhere. 

As if sensing the dip in her thoughts, Lorene slips an arm around her, cuddling her close. “You’ll be great parents,” she assures. “I think André is already in practice with Charlie, he’s so good with her.” 

Takako hums her agreement, zoning out a little as Lorene talks about Charlie, about how scared she was getting pregnant at 21, how Takako will be so much more ready. This wasn’t the plan for her life, really. And she knows she’s being indulged by André, that he wants her to be happy, wants his mum to have a grandchild. Everything he ever does is for other people, hidden behind layers of ego and bravado. He reveals himself to her in a way he does to so few people, it feels like a gift and a curse all at once and she wants to tell him they should abandon it all sometimes, push him to find a man who makes him happy and put herself out there at the same time, meet someone of her own. Yet she’d needed to leave Japan behind for a while, to be somewhere the sun always shines and there aren’t ghosts around every corner. She takes care of André and he tries to ensure she isn’t lonely. 

And yet - 

The long months since she’s touched another woman seem like an endless amount of time and Lorene is warm against her, her hair fragrant with the fruit scent of her shampoo. She moves her hand to rest over Takako’s stomach and Takako has to fight to suppress a shiver. The thought of her is too enticing, even as she knows it isn’t anything personal; as attractive as Lorene is the greater part of the lure is someone to touch, to be touched by. One night stands have never been her style but even in Tokyo she had her circle of friends, meeting women wasn’t too difficult if she’d wanted to, if she’d been less devoted. 

“You were with your ex-girlfriend a long time,” Lorene asks, as if reading her thoughts. 

Takako worries at the inside of her cheek, feeling as if a cloud has moved across the sun. “Six years.” 

“I was with Thibault for four, before he decided a wife and child was too much responsibility for him. he’s in New York now, fucking some teenager the last I heard.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Lorene shrugs, moves her hand, leaving Takako feeling oddly bereft. “It’s the past. Jev is a better man than he ever could be, and so is André.” 

Takako opens her mouth to explain that what she has with André is light years from what Lorene and Jev have, but she doesn’t know how to phrase it, how to explain in a way that could make sense to someone who’s moved from a bad relationship straight into discovering the love of their life. She wonders if it bothers Lorene that she isn’t quite enough for Jean-Éric, questions if there’s any real intent behind her easy flirting and so she shifts, makes a show of shyly glancing up the lean length of Lorene’s torso, meeting her eyes. 

“I had a girlfriend once you know,” Lorene lowers her voice as if letting Takako in on a secret, although her tone is light and playful, the same cadence as when she speaks to Charlie sometimes. “In school. It was kind of sweet really but we didn’t get very far, holding hands and a few kisses.” 

She sounds so naïve it tugs at Takako’s heart. 

“I guess we thought we were being cool, the 2000s you know, half my class were calling themselves bicurious.” She giggles, hides her face against Takako’s shoulder in embarrassment. “Sorry that sounds really childish doesn’t it.” 

Takako wants to tell her she isn’t bi but that’s a statement that would open far too many avenues of questioning about the nature of her relationship with André. “It’s okay, honestly.” She places one hand on Lorene’s bare shoulder, lifting her chin with the other, looking into her eyes. “I think you should be kissed by someone who knows how,” she misquotes with a giggle, not caring much if Lorene gets the reference or not. She wants to take something for herself, just for a moment in the afternoon heat, the two of them alone before the guys finish making love and they all go back to their strange symbiotic relationships. 

Lorene’s lips are soft and sun-warm, her skin smooth and perfect beneath Takako’s fingers as she strokes down her jaw, tangling back into her hair, let loose now the heat of the day has subsided a little. Their mouths brush tentatively together, the kind of kiss Takako hasn’t experienced in many years. Lorene moans softly, her parted lips an invitation that Takako doesn’t refuse. There’s no real intent behind it, just the pleasure of the slow, languid sweep of their tongues against each other. Lorene trails her fingers down Takako’s neck, over the curve of her breasts, cupping one gently and rubbing her thumb over the nipple before breaking the kiss, leaning their foreheads together. 

The loneliness is worse, it turns out, having a stolen moment of something you’ve lost. 

Takako is glad for the interruption of raised voices coming from the house, not keen to take the subject further. When they emerge, Jean-Eric’s arms are folded defensively around himself, André a step behind him, brow furrowed with the kind of trouble that Takako has seen darken his eyes all too often. They are the familiar dishevelled that she expects them to be, yet there’s something else there too, an unease lurking between them and a haughty air of _ leave me alone _ that Jev wears all too well. 

Takako is about to say something but then Max winds his way through André’s legs, launching himself into the swimming pool. It feels like a better idea than anyone else seems to have. 

They drift slowly back into their couples, André lounging in the pink unicorn inflatable he claims he bought for when kids of his friends come over but which Takako knows he loves in a childish way that endears him to her more than she’d ever admit. She floats alongside him, hanging onto the edge and resting her cheek against his thigh. Does he want to talk about it, she asks. No. 

At the opposite end of the swimming pool, Lorene and Jev make out like teenagers, Jean-Éric clinging to her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist while André pretends not to notice. 

Takako repeats the question later in the evening when the night sky is clear and bathed in stars so bright it feels like the land is covered by a blanket of diamonds. The lights in the kitchen area are switched off, almost as if André doesn't want the rest of them to see as he loads up the dishwasher, lest such domesticity might paint him as someone living in the real world rather than one of the more mysterious racing gods he so idolises. He pauses from where he’s rinsing their plates from dinner, piling them up beside the dishwasher and leaning back against the kitchen counter at Takako's interruption. He looks older, she thinks, with only the shadowy light from the next room dancing over his face, he looks the kind of exhausted he always pretends not to feel. 

“It’s just the heatwave,” he lies. Just the heatwave. Just the pressure of the end of the season, of the emails stewing in his inbox awaiting a reply. Takako doesn’t press any further, not wanting to push too hard while they still have guests. She almost wishes they’d invited Ben and his family over instead, but whatever tension exists between Jev and André they’re good enough at compartmentalising it that the rest of the night slips by without it intruding. 

The four of them stay outside beneath the canopy strung with lights as the hours rise and then dwindle, playing games and drinking too much of the good cognac, the one Takako knows was a gift from another man who couldn’t love André properly either. 

At one stage Lorene drifts away to call her mother, checking up on Charlie, leaving Takako to negotiate one of the elephants in the room. She has never seen a game of backgammon so barbed - who knew it was possible to place a piece on the board with such vehemence - but Takako stays there beside them in the knowledge that her presence will stop them saying things they might regret. Things like _ I need you _ or _ never again. _If Jean-Éric attempts to catch her eye, well Takako has enough experience of evasion to look the other way, diverting herself with looking at André's camera instead. The photographs on there are a sharp counterpoint to the quiet anger she can sense in Jev's eyes, he appears softer on the screen but no less intense in either his posed or candid state; a snapshot of a life that André would never admit aloud to wanting. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh amazing, so beautiful,” Jev declares from his position crouching on the floor, Leica held up to his eye. Takako looks back over her shoulder to see what he’s referring to, which turns out to be the photograph he’s taken of Lorene leaning against one of the cloistered arches of the abbey, rather than just the abbey itself. She is serene all in white, pure as their surroundings would reflect, yet there’s a hint of mischief in the sultry darkness of her eyes as she lowers and then raises them, playing to the camera. It makes Takako a little weary of the game of charades the four of them seem to be playing, leading her to idly wonder if they shouldn’t all just swap partners for a while, although Jev doesn’t strike her as the type to want to share Lorene; well - perhaps with André, if it meant maintaining the status quo. Knowing André, he’d probably even tell himself he wanted to do it. 

Thankfully the air is milder today, which seems to have lifted André's mood a little, prompting the suggestion of a drive to the other side of Gordes to the sleepy shade of Senanque Abbey. The lavender fields are in full bloom all around the ancient buildings, fragrant and calming, a dose of relaxation something they could all do with. So often it feels like living here is nothing more than a dream, like this whole life of city to city is, following the races and the sunshine across the globe like chasing after youth before it slips through their fingers. Provence is like something from a postcard, so beautiful it feels scarcely real, a vista that surely can never grow tiring, like the view of the girls that catch her eye when her and André sit having coffee sometimes in the village square, tourists from Italy or Spain with their sun-kissed skin and crop tops, radiant with twenty-something charm. 

There's a game the two of them play sometimes, André trying to pick out the girl who's captured her attention, daring her to do something about it only for Takako to counter with the suggestion of the waiter at La Trinquette, who with his dark curls and wide eyes looks like he could have stepped from a Renaissance painting, and who has been flirting with André so long that she suspects his crush might be more than purely a sexual allure. She's grown tired enough of André insisting the guy isn't his type that she's mostly ceased mentioning it.  _ He's too… _ André had paused the last time, finally coming up with  _ young _ , Takako biting back the  _ emotionally available  _ she really wanted to finish his sentence with. 

It's easy to wander on ahead, to let their voices drift, eclipsed by her own thoughts, blankly reading the words on the information leaflet. She'd picked up the French version and the words only partially make sense, dates she can pick out, descriptions she feels she should understand by now, still not making sense. It's easier to look than read anyway, to drink in all the beauty of her surroundings. She gets lost in the cavernous, centuries old chambers of the monastery, while in the distance Jev and André laugh and joke about who would make the better monk, switching languages and affections, being the kind of lewd and loud that they get sometimes when they forget anyone else in the world exists but each other. It’s a rare, if slightly irritating, gift and it makes Takako feel the suffocating emptiness of isolation a little bit keener. 

She lights a candle in the winter chapel, slots a couple of euro into the donations box and sits in one of the pews, wishing hard, closing her eyes and seeing herself heavily pregnant, then with a girl of around Charlie’s age, plaiting her hair, taking her to racetracks with André, an illusion. 

She isn't sure how much time slips by in there beneath the vast vaulted ceiling, thinking of how many others have sat before the altar and prayed to a god they only half believe in, hoping some small thread of a dream might take seed and bloom. The day is still early enough that the bustle of tour groups with their flags and audio guides haven't yet descended, nothing but the soft tread of the monks as they walk in silent contemplation to disturb Takako's thoughts. 

How must it be, she contemplates, to gather up all your words and choose only the most vital to speak aloud. 

Eventually the rest of them catch up with her, Lorene slipping into the pew at Takako's side, giving her hand a squeeze, their thighs pressed together. Takako thinks about kissing her again, she's got a taste for it now, but it doesn't seem appropriate here. Instead they sit for some moments longer as Jean-Éric and André photograph them, the two of them eagerly comparing their work as if to determine who has the better technique, or better relationship, who knows. It's curious watching the way they orbit each other, the pull of magnetism that seems to exist between them, drawing Jean-Éric to André as he's drawn to Lorene, the three of them spinning each other around until André is too dizzy to decipher Jean-Éric's intentions. He can't settle. Not for second step of the podium. Not for second best. Even if he wanted to, even if his heart longs to be tied to Jean-Éric's in the ideal of some happy ever after he's always pretended he doesn't need, he can't, won't, beg for scraps. 

They touch so often in small ways, unconscious movements like now, Jev's fingers against the delicate inside of André's wrist as André shows him one of the photographs he's just taken, the two of them leaning in to breathe the same air.

Lorene catches Takako watching them, her eyes shrewdly drinking in the same view, how close they stand together, how André's smile lights up his whole face when Jev praises him. She meets Takako's eyes and it's all written there as clear as the cloudless sky beyond the stained glass windows: Lorene would fight for Jev, if she had to. Lorene would fight for Jev and win. 

Takako adds a little prayer for that to not be necessary, excusing herself to go to the bathroom and spending five minutes scrolling through her Instagram feed and telling herself that if someone breaks up with you, it's definitely a bad idea to still be looking at their stories a year later, as her finger hovers over the circle. 

When she emerges the rest of them have walked on outside ahead, Lorene in the distance and Jean-Éric and André behind her, their hands brushing together as they walk. She watches as Jev pulls André into one of the walled gardens, can’t help but glance in to see them pressed close together, holding each other as they talk quietly. Jev’s hands are at André’s waist and they gaze into each other’s eyes before leaning in for a kiss so passionate and tender it makes Takako’s heart hurt. 

She pretends she hasn't seen them, stepping back and calling his name from the other side of the wall, which works but only a little. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, looking harried when he spots her. 

"André--" she begins, but then Jev is there too, refusing to look at her. 

"Do you still have my sunglasses?" André interrupts her, and she digs in her handbag with a sigh, handing them over like a shield for a knight who's found himself bereft in battle. Jev mutters something low and sulky in French, leaving her wondering in bitter frustration if perhaps she should just let André destroy himself over this man after all. 

They have lunch at the top of Gordes at La Trinquette, on Takako's suggestion, just to screw with André a bit; she can see that he would prefer somewhere else.  _ He's gorgeous _ , she mouths at him when their usual waiter takes the order, the  _ Jean-Pierre _ neatly monogrammed on his apron has never quite felt appropriate, for obvious reasons, and she has to catch herself from calling him David, her code name for him on account of how easily he'd fit in on a plinth in the Accademia.

He blushes tapping André's order into his iPhone, André elbowing her when she whispers  _ give him your phone number _ in Japanese. 

She picks at her  _ Saint-Jacques  _ while Jev flirts intensely with André, Lorene bending down to pet the resident restaurant dog behind the ears. The terrier rolls around on the floor beside them, the four of them taking it in turns to fuss and stroke, their waiter eventually bringing out some water for him. 

_Cute _**_and_** _likes dogs_, Takako adds to the list for next time her and André repeat the same conversation, wondering if André has ever, even one time, asked a guy out on a date. 

They finish off with a cheese plate for dessert, André declaring his intention to cycle it off tomorrow when Jev and Lorene have left. It’s a light-hearted enough couple of hours in the end, the spectacular view down over Gordes and the Luberon Valley from the wooden terrace they’re sitting at enough to dispel any clouds that have threatened to settle over their gathering, yet Takako knows too well that ‘cycle it off tomorrow’ probably means that André will disappear at dawn and not return until the evening, a full day alone with his thoughts something that can go either way. She sometimes thinks the way he trains is a form of self-punishment as much as it is a way to stay race-fit. 

Jean-Pierre returns to ask if they want coffee, a soft lock of hair falling over his eyes as he crouches at the side of their table between where Jev and André sit opposite each other, petting the dog while running through the different blends of beans they have on offer. He's speaking to the whole table but unable to refrain from directing his words at André, glancing up the length of his body, making eye contact. Takako notes the way André's fingers twitch a little on the table top, an involuntary need to brush away the stray curl. Opposite, Jean-Éric's hand flexes in an entirely different response. 

It's too hot for coffee anyway, too soporific an afternoon, and Lorene's suggestion they head back to try Takako's homemade almond milk ice-cream is agreeable to all, even if only because it takes any intruders out of the equation of their foursome.  _ What a creep,  _ Takako zones out on Jean-Éric badly whispering to Lorene. Then  _ he was all over you, _ to André, who just shrugs and makes a show of reciprocating the flirtation while getting the check. Takako hides her smile behind her hands, glad that somewhere in there is a side of André proud enough to project his confidence at being  _ enough _ to the rest of the world, even if he doesn't quite believe it with his whole heart. 

Takako is just coming out of the bathroom, admiring the vintage food and drink advertising posters that tastefully adorn the walls and tucking the napkin that Jean-Pierre had hastily written his number down on, when Jean-Éric blocks her path, grasping her hand and taking her to one side. His accent is thicker than usual, voice urgent, and she struggles to grasp the thread of his words for a second, thinking she's about to get a lecture for encouraging André's potential hook-up, before realising what the real issue is.

“He listens to you.”

She looks up at Jev, the intimidation of his height and the intensity of his neuroses. She can see the desperation in his eyes, concealed throughout the morning as someone with extensive media training is so experienced at. He leans with his foot back against the wall like he's James Dean and Takako wants to hit him and André both for not just being honest with each other from the beginning. 

“If you could just talk to him," Jev worries his lip, trying to run his fingers through his hair, except it isn't quite long enough. "Please, it's not a good decision, it's crazy. You know how good things are on the team, how it's been the two of us, the  _ four  _ of us, how it works.”

Takako sighs, squeezing his arm sympathetically. “He finally told you, then?” She casts her mind back to the day before, their raised voices in the house. “I can’t influence his decision, not about racing,” she replies. 

"Carl tried. But it's different with you, you're his…" Jev trails off, looking around to where Lorene and André are waiting outside, where she's posing against the railings for him, laughing and teasing him that he's Mario Testino. 

"I'm his what?" Takako asks softly. "His girlfriend? Did he ever actually say that to you, Jean-Éric?"

"You live with him, he loves you." 

It's so clear to Jev, so simple, the way their lives are all supposed to slot together, the way they live and love and project themselves, the distinction between wife and girlfriend and lover. It isn't Takako's place to say anything more, to say the things she suspects André can't say and the things she can see in Jev's eyes he doesn't want to hear. 

"I live in his house, Jev, not in his head. If his decision is made then it's made, nothing I say to him is going to make a difference."

"If?"

Takako sighs. 

"We have a good car, a good package. So it's Porsche, I get it. I mean I don't but yeah it's Porsche, so what. What happens when they struggle through their rookie year and he gets nowhere, when they ship in some younger driver to replace him? I know how that feels, I don't want that for him."

"Is that what you told him?" Takako asks, her heart sinking in the knowledge of how that would have felt to André, in the knowledge that all André would need to stay would be something entirely separate from racing altogether. 

"Please," Jev murmurs, "you can change his mind, I know you can." 

She's heard his radio messages before, at the back of the garage or in the VIP area watching the race with Lorene. It's the same desperation in his voice now, almost as if he knows his race is over. 

She wants to tell him he’s selfish, but aren’t they all? She wants to tell him she kissed his girlfriend but then again, he probably already knows. 

In lieu of any of that, she just hugs him, whispering some soft placating words. " _ You _ could change his mind," she suggests, as if letting Jean-Éric in on a secret, "if you wanted to." 

Jean-Éric just frowns. It hasn't quite clicked. 


	3. Chapter 3

It isn’t a relief when they leave the following morning, not the way Takako thought it might be. It’s early, just after 6, just before her yoga and also not yet time for Benoit to come by and collect André for their cycle into the hills. 

Jean-Éric is slow putting their bags into the car, purposefully languid movements punctuated by standing with his hands on his hips, staring into space with the pretence of trying to remember something he might have forgotten back in the house. Takako can see André finds it excruciating. It isn’t much better for her, witnessing the gradual death of something she knows for a second brought him such joy. 

Maybe André should fight for him, she thinks. For a moment she wants to tell him to do so, to cling on and beg Jean-Éric to choose him, for André to have the happy ending that's eluded her. He never would put himself on the line that way, and neither would Jev. More than that, Andre’s all she has here, her only anchor; she knows she won’t put forward Jev’s case, won’t implore André to stay where he'll always be second best. If he’s going to find someone who’ll love him then she wants to find someone of her own first, she wants their child to be here and not just a dream before she can think about any of it. 

Jev hugs her tightly, whispers in her ear another plea that she would prefer not to acknowledge. Lorene embraces her loosely, a twinkle in her eye as she kisses her on both cheeks, the French way. André has grown bolder, Takako notes, no longer restraining himself, perhaps because he’s on home ground, or it’s the awareness of their time slipping like grains of sand through his fingers. He takes Jean-Éric’s face in his hands and presses their lips together, light but longing. An apology, or a goodbye? 

Lorene refuses to look, although it’s naive to think she isn’t aware. Instead she holds Takako’s hand as if they’re school friends on a cinema date, pointing out at Max as he runs around the perimeter wall, desperate for his walk before the heat of the day sets in. 

Then they’re gone. 

Takako watches André as the gate swings shut behind Jev’s car, enclosing the two of them in their private community again. He masks it well, the swoop she knows he feels in his stomach, the ache. 

Almost immediately she wants them back, to cut through the never-ending hum of the insects and silence of the countryside, but then André is gone too, Ben’s voice cheerful through the intercom and a whole day opening up before her. 

She walks Max but the weather doesn’t allow them to go too far, the Labrador panting up at her before long, seeking shade beneath the lemon trees along the path. The house feels even less like home without André there, the minimalist design and lack of anything truly personal on the walls giving it the air of a gallery space even more when he's away. It's oddly disconcerting, like she's waiting to wake up and realise she can't possibly live here, somewhere so open and bright with acres of light and fields beyond, so far removed from her apartment in Roppongi. She thinks of all her possessions still in storage back there, along with everything André also left behind, just waiting to find a place in their new life together, to fit in.

* 

André returns earlier than Takako expected, the cloud that’s been hanging over him in recent days seeming to have dispelled after a day with Benoit. He embraces her, still sweaty and gross from the ride, laughing as she tries to squirm away, ordering him to shower. He emerges an hour later, elegant in pale suit trousers and a linen shirt, Max raising an eyebrow from his basket in the corner. 

“Are we going out?” Takako asks, glancing up from her laptop. He affords her one of his most devastating smiles before moving to stand behind her, kneading her shoulders with capable hands. “I’m cooking dinner,” he declares, then sheepishly “I know I haven’t been easy to live with recently.” 

Takako looks down at her hands, smoothing her skirt over her knees. He has, but it’s fine. It is. 

Dinner too is pleasant, the kind of normal that their relationship used to be years ago back in Tokyo, the ease that used to exist when they were all a little younger and less jaded by time. The memories of those days are bittersweet now, the little family they all created for themselves is cracked and splintered but there’s echoes of it everywhere. Who would’ve thought she’d end up here with André, that Yuri would have a child, James a serious girlfriend, that Eriko… her breath stutters, risotto catching in her throat. 

It’s a beautiful meal until after dessert, the two of them retiring to the sofa while Max chases insects scuttling across the floor. André tops up their wine glasses and slides his arm around her, causing her stomach to drop in remembrance of his words earlier in the week. He rests his head on her shoulder, runs his thumb over the bones of her jaw. It feels good to be held, touched, to feel the warmth of him against her. How long is it since they met? Ten years, twelve? It’s so long she doesn’t even recall when they became part of each other. It occurs to her in a brief sway of horror that Jev might have been it for André, that he’ll never again reach those depths of emotion and that she’ll just spend her life patching up all the cracks within him, salving each other’s wounds. 

He guides her to face him and in an instant she recognises the evening for the seduction it is, closing her eyes and letting him kiss her, waiting for the moment he sees what a terrible idea this is. She kisses back instinctively, not for the first time, except now there’s no James laughing and cheering in the background, topping up the saké and shouting out the next dare. Now it’s just the two of them and the calm silence of the south of France on a summer evening. 

“André” she warns when they part, but his eyes are wide with unshed tears and maybe this is something they just have to pretend to want if it’s all going to work out in the end. 

His fingers move to the buttons of her blouse and she wonders when the last time was that he undressed a woman, how many years ago. His forehead is taut with concentration and his hands shake so badly she has to still them, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “André, this is a bad idea.” 

He looks away. 

“It’s a good time,” he mumbles. “I made a note on my phone which dates, like you said. Remember, you told me?” 

“André, we’ve been drinking all weekend, it’s—” 

“It’s a good time, isn’t it?” He grabs his phone off the table, opening his calendar and showing her how he’s marked up the days that she's ovulating.

“I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind for this.” She squeezes his hand, trying to give him time to pause and catch up with his thoughts rather than racing ahead. André sighs, pulling away and reaching for his wine glass. Taking the edge off. He needs to be less than sober to do this, she realises. 

“I’m fine,” he says, elongating the syllables like he does when he’s talking to the media and trying to buy himself some time to tamp down what he really wants to say. “And why waste time you know, new starts for everyone.” 

“Jev--” Takako starts to say, pausing at the force with which André puts the glass down on the coffee table, some wine splashing out over the rim and seeping into the grooves of the reclaimed wood. 

“I don’t want to talk about Jev. I want to make love to you.” 

She is suddenly extremely grateful he isn’t looking at her, that he doesn’t catch the physical cringe she’s unable to suppress at the words and their forced tone of seduction. Of all the desires André has in the world right now, having sex with her is probably the last thing and it’s hard not to just shake him. Instead she takes a deep breath and tries not flinch when he touches her again, closing her eyes tightly and letting her mind drift as they kiss. It’s impossible to ignore that it’s him she’s kissing though, her mind turning over his motivations. Does he want to show Jean-Éric that he can do this too, pass off having a girlfriend and a family, is this something lingering at the back of his mind ever since he made her the offer, all dressed up as something that will make them both happy in the long run? He tastes of alcohol, and kisses like he’s drowning or acting.  _ I’m an actor now _ he’d said, laughing, in Cannes, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him he always has been. She doesn’t like him acting with her though, they’re closer than that. 

Their clothes come off quickly and still it’s a gargantuan effort to even look at each other, shy teenagers fumbling out of their depth. He kisses her neck and she twists awkwardly in his arms, touching his back hesitantly. Should they go to the bedroom, she wonders, as his fingers reach for the clasp on her bra, fiddling with it and then stopping. There’s no need to take it off is there. 

“Do you want to maybe…” he suggests, trailing off. Takako’s eyes are trained on the print on the wall opposite, an enlargement of one of the photographs he took in Marrakech earlier in the year, reddish hues of the buildings on an empty street, an alley leading to somewhere or nowhere. The candles on the table have burned down, a hiss that makes Max look up as one of them succumbs to the night air and expires. André guides her hand down his bare chest but it’s a loose hold. 

“I love you,” she whispers.

He pauses, their joined hands resting over his crotch, the material just as soft against her fingers as his flaccid cock beneath it. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, finally meeting her eyes as she traces the shape of his dick. The creases across his forehead are more defined than they used to be, same around his eyes (she knows how little he’s slept lately, has heard his restless wanderings through the house before dawn too often). 

“I love you too,” he replies, and then his hands are in her hair and his lips are at her cheek, her chin, her neck, in genuine conveyance of the words rather than something fake that he’s trying to convince himself he should do. 

They’ve come this far, Takako figures they should try and finish it, not knowing what to say in any language that would make this easier, so she sticks with it, her hand moving steadily over his crotch; unwilling to really touch, to dip beneath his boxer briefs. It doesn’t change anything, if they can make each other feel good for a while and maybe this works out then it’s okay, isn’t it, she rationalises.  _ It’s okay _ . 

It takes a while before she realises the words have spilled from her mouth, too far into her thoughts that she doesn’t notice André’s stillness. He’s still soft beneath her touch, even when she bites her lip and pushes her hand inside to touch his flesh there’s only the barest stirring. She wonders if any of the men he’s loved has ever spoken the words back to him and meant it. 

André tips his head back, taking a deep breath as she awkwardly strokes him, spreading his legs a little wider, sinking into the sofa. His fingers tease the scalloped lace edges of her knickers, tickling over her stomach, but refraining from venturing further. 

“If you just give me a little longer,” he says, voice rough as if it’s an effort to get the words out.  _ I can do this _ whispered under his breath. Is that what he told himself in the bathroom mirror, the pep talk he gave to convince himself? Takako’s composure falters, the tears she’s been holding in spilling down her cheeks. She frees her hand from inside his boxers, biting her lip to catch her breath, to get herself under control. There are limits to her solicitude though, and here's where it all becomes too much. It's easy to have sex with someone, it wouldn't be the first time she has while just going through the motions, detached. The same, Takako knows, is true for André. Not now though, not with each other when they're supposed to be a source of comfort, this home, this life; an oasis in a desert of disappointment that's sucked them both dry. André's eyes are still screwed tightly closed, like he’s taken himself away to another place, to a couple of nights ago with Jev, and maybe if she did give him a little longer then the delicate softness of her hands might melt into the background of his fantasies. Maybe they'd still be able to look at each other afterwards, but probably not. 

“No. No, André. Enough now, that’s enough.” 

She tries to placate him, shaking his shoulders to pull him out of the headspace he’s sunk into. There’s a desperation in his eyes when he opens them to take her in, a fear he’s normally so expert at concealing. 

“I can do this,” he pleads again, and she realises he doesn’t just mean having sex, that he means all of it: going to Porsche, leaving Jev, being the kind of father that his own dad was to him.

He tries to lean in just to hold her, but it’s too much, to be sitting here with the humiliation of being almost naked, a feeling of vulnerability not unlike the same she left Tokyo to flee from. The night breeze is warm but she recoils with a shiver, pushing him away and gathering up her clothes, listening to him break down but lacking the strength to do anything for him.

She pauses at the top of the stone steps leading up to the first floor of the house, gazing down at him curled on the couch, his face buried in one of the cushions.

The night draws on. Takako sinks beneath the mild waters of the bathtub, blinking below the soapy film of the bubbles as they gather above her face. The music she’s put on through the built in speakers in the ensuite is deep and bluesy, easy to get lost in, deep enough to just obscure the apprehensive tap on the door that comes as she’s tracing the edge of the huge freestanding copper tub with her toe. She lets the water cover her completely, closing her eyes and holding her breath until the maelstrom in her head calms and she emerges breathlessly into the candlelight. How would it be to have someone to share a bath this size with, she wonders idly, trailing her fingers up the inside of her thigh, spreading her legs wider and hooking one knee over the edge of the bath. Her fingers find their target and she lets herself indulge in the memory of licking the sweat from Lorene’s lip, how warm her skin had felt, the hardness of her nipples beneath the bikini top, how good it felt to be touched. She presses her face against her arm, shaking enough that some of the water sloshes over the side of the bath, everything slipping away for a few blissful moments. 

The water is almost cold by the time Takako steps out onto the bathmat, her fingers wrinkled and her limbs loose with blessed relaxation. She towel dries her hair and slips on a robe, the cotton beautifully embroidered with creeping flowers; a gift from Rosy. The material is soft against her heated skin, comfortable, and the remaining anxiety seeps out of her as she sits back against the pillows on her bed. It’s after midnight but André won’t be asleep and Takako knows the same will elude her if she tries. Still, it seems too soon to go after him. Instead she opens up her laptop and spends some time tweaking the design of the website for her jewellery venture, the aesthetics of which aren’t quite working how she wants at the moment. It’s a mostly fruitless activity, more to give herself some time than to actually achieve anything, to let him gather himself. 

She finds André outside, under the canopy of the pool house where the four of them had eaten lunch earlier in the week, sitting on one of the chairs with his feet resting on another and his chin on his knees, gazing unseeingly into the night. 

“I took Max for a short walk,” he says when he hears the soft impact of her bare feet on the tiles. He doesn’t look up, still ruminating on whatever is in his head. “In case you were looking for me.”

She stands behind him, touching his hair gently, the longer strands on top slipping through her fingers. “Would you prefer if I leave you alone,” she asks. Only then does he snap out of his trance, twisting round to look at her. 

“No. I fucked up didn’t I,” he curses, the words spoken with shallow breath. “I know I fucked up.”

He gets up to embrace her and then catches himself, unsure if she’ll allow it, but she just gathers him in her arms, her head against the solid mass of his chest, her arms clutching the back of his t-shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and Takako shushes him softly. 

"It's alright," she whispers, feeling some of the tension seep out of his body as he sags against her. 

"It was a stupid idea, I guess I just thought - fuck, I don't know what I thought." André laughs bitterly, leaning forward to press a kiss to her hair, gentle and reverent. 

"You're such a romantic, André." 

Takako steps away from him, taking his hand and leading him over to the stone seating area that they've recently had put in alongside the pool, cushions dotted along the limestone bench and lanterns at either end. He sits forward, elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands, nothing but the ceaseless song of the crickets to disturb the silence between them. He is, she thinks, a real romantic, the facts of it buried deep enough for only the persistent to dig up. She places her hand on his back, rubbing at the knotted muscles of his shoulders. She is persistent, and has no desire to see him give up on himself out of stubbornness. He'd sold her an idea and more than anything Takako wants to believe it, to take their combined solitude and turn it into something better. The girl from the church is back in her mind, pigtails and giggles and helping André to fix up the beat up old cars he brings home like stray dogs, while Takako watches on with pride. It can be enough. It is enough. 

"We can go to the clinic, if you want. Or whatever you like," André murmurs. "Whatever you prefer." He sighs heavily, rubbing at his face before sitting up straight and glancing sideways at her. "It was a stupid idea," he repeats.

"It wasn't your best, I won't argue," she says, resting her head on his shoulder. "Not at the clinic though, here is fine. You can just…"

"Fill a jar?" he finishes, his forehead creasing with laughter. His cheeks have flushed a little with embarrassment and she can't help but absorb it, cringing at the events that had unfolded. It's so absurd that she's swept up in it too, their laughter a release of all the strange tension that's been hanging over them since Jean-Éric and Lorene's visit, since André left one morning to go to Stuttgart and came back locked in his own head. 

“For a moment back there I convinced myself we could just be like them,” André laments, leaning in to Takako’s touch as she combs her fingers through his hair. 

“Even though you’re gay and we’re not attracted to each other,” Takako teases, sighing when she feels him tense. “You hate the word, don’t you?” 

“I hate what people would do with it, if they knew," he hesitates. "I hate what everything I’ve worked so hard for would become."

"What would it become, André?"

He sighs at the scratch of her fingernails over his scalp, gazing at the stillness of the swimming pool. "I think you know. It would be mentioned in every breath."

_ I think you're scared,  _ she thinks but refuses to say, pondering how it is that all his great loves have been men who are out of reach, a veritable well of justification for never honestly trying for anything like a real relationship. Maybe it's worse for him, or maybe not. Takako knows how it is to truly have your feelings reciprocated, only to lose it all regardless. 

"I know you told Jev about the Porsche offer," Takako says quietly after they've fallen silent. 

He takes her hand, tracing the lines of her palm with his index finger. 

"He spoke to me, when we were at the Abbey, after that." 

André exhales heavily, linking their fingers together and giving her hand a squeeze. "I don't want to know," he replies, stubbornly. 

"You don't want to know or you're afraid to know?"

"Takako--"

"It's not the same thing, André. Just because you can't talk about how you feel, it doesn't mean these things don't exist."

"He asked you to talk me out of it, yeah? Fuck, he probably even begged you, told you it was the wrong choice, that he couldn't live without me, yes." 

Takako bites at her lip. The truth is a torment he likes to comfort himself with - it means he's right about himself. Even if she tells him it's bullshit he wouldn't believe her. 

"He loves you," she whispers, "but not the way you want him to. There, does that make it better?" He has his family, and we have...something else. I hate watching you do this to yourself over and over, all this time and you still keep giving so much of your heart to people who have no use for it."

"We're just fucking," André says shakily, the words not even remotely ringing true to Takako's ears. He probably has no recollection of the first time he'd said those words to her, lying on his stomach on the sofa as she'd dabbed antiseptic onto the welts on his back, in when...2009, 2010? It's not love unless they make you  _ feel _ , irrespective of whether those feelings are largely awful.

"Okay," she sighs, not in the mood for a fight. She bats away a mosquito that's flying in circles around their bare legs, André having changed into shorts and an old battered t-shirt presumably before taking Max out, making a note to pick up some more citronella candles from the store tomorrow. 

"We should probably go to sleep," Takako suggests, wondering what time it even is. There's a particular type of quiet here when the sun's gone down, a stillness slowly evaporating the day, leaving her exhausted. Yet André remains sitting there when she stands to leave, caught in his thoughts.

"I haven't signed it yet," he confesses, his eyes glinting with unshed tears as they meet hers for the briefest of moments. He shields his face with his hands but doesn't make a sound, rubbing at his eyes viciously. 

He'd been so happy a year ago, when they'd just been friends catching up. He'd been so happy and so worried about her and now she's the one holding him up, a revolving door of screw ups. 

"I thought I'd see what happened at the weekend first, wait to decide, just in case…I don't know." 

Just in case he chose me, she can see him think. 

"You're going to sign it now, right, yes?" 

Takako catches a glimpse of the indecision flickering through his eyes, the  _ tell me what I should do  _ that his pride is too delicate to voice. 

"There's no fucking choice is there." 

No, there isn't. 

"I think you should sign it," Takako says softly, looking down at him so small and drawn into himself, so far removed from the André she knows, the André she attends race weekends with, all his bravado and strength withered down to a man alone wasting his best years on a dog and an empty house, on racing cars that have brought him no glory in five years. They were both twenty-something once, optimistic and in love with ideas of people who have shown the limits of their affections and the depth of their vices. It seems a long way back, a Tokyo belonging to other dreamers now. 

_ Come back with me, _ André had said before racing in Fuji last year, when he should have been showing Jev around his former life. Takako would probably have gone anywhere, with anyone. 

"Yeah," André breathes, the tension draining from his frame, "yeah. I'll call them in the morning." 

Takako pulls him to his feet, extinguishing the lanterns one by one until the only light is that of the stars and the glow of the lamps from within the house. It's not a home, not yet, but it can be. 

"Sleep in my room?" she asks, pausing at the top of the polished concrete stairs as André is about to turn away to his own bedroom. 

Sometimes, not waking up alone is everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The novel quoted from at the beginning is Tender is The Night by F.Scott Fitzgerald.  
-"You should be kissed often and by someone who knows how" is taken from the movie Gone with the Wind  
-Places and locations are for the most part accurate - the restaurant does exist although I can't comment on the hotness of their waiters.   
Thank you for reading :)


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